More murmurs of agreement. John’s newspapers had been publicizing exactly what that meant for years. Refugees from the Empire, and now from the Union, had been driving home the same message. Militia had had to be called out to put down anti-Chosen rioting when the pictures of the Bassin du Sud massacre came out.
Senator Beemody coughed discreetly. “General Farr”—the high command had confirmed his promotion as soon as he’d stepped back on Santander soil—”I gather you do not recommend an immediate declaration of war.”
“No,” Jeffrey said. McRuther blinked in surprise, his eyes narrowing warily.
“We’re not ready,” the younger Farr went on.
Beside him in his rear admiral’s uniform, his father nodded. The family resemblance was much closer now that there was gray at Jeffrey’s temples and streaking his mustache. The lines scoring down from either side of his nose added to it as well.
“We’re much stronger now than we were four or five years ago,” Jeffrey went on. “Military production of all types is up sharply, and now we’ve got field-tested models. Our latest aircraft are as good as the Land models, and we’re gradually getting production organized. The Freedom Brigades’ve given us a lot of men with combat experience, including a lot of officers; besides that, they’re thirty-five thousand veterans as formed troops, and if the Union falls they’ll retreat over the border. So will a lot of the Loyalist Army. But we’re still not mobilized, a lot of the new Regular Army formations are weak, and the Provincial militias need to be better integrated. Admiral Farr can speak to the naval situation.”
Jeffrey’s father nodded.
“We have a tonnage advantage of three to two,” he said. “More in battleships. The Land Navy has more experience, particularly in cruiser and torpedo-boat operations in the Gut, which could be crucial. Still, I’m fairly confident we could dominate the Gut. The problem is that operating further north, in the Passage, we’d be sticking our . . . ah, necks into a potential meatgrinder, with strong Land bases on either side and a long way from our own. If we lose our fleet, we’d be a long way towards losing the war itself. Furthermore, nobody knows what aircraft will mean to naval war. The Chosen have more experience, but only with dirigibles. We need time to finish the aircraft carriers and to train the fleet in their use.”
“Senators,” Beemody said, “the Republic of the Santander cannot tolerate a Union which is satellite to the Land. Are we agreed?”
One by one the men on the other side of the table lifted their hands. McRuther sighed and followed suit, last and most reluctant.
“Then that is the sense of the Foreign Affairs Committee,” Beemody said. “On the other hand, we are not yet ready for full-scale conflict. I therefore suggest that we recommend to the Premier that in the event of the fall of the Loyalist government in the Union, the Republic should declare a naval blockade of all Union ports pending the removal of foreign forces from Union soil.”
“But that means war!” McRuther burst out.
“Not necessarily. As Admiral Farr has pointed out, we do have more heavy warships than the Land. The Gut is closer to our bases than theirs; we can blockade the Union and they’d be in no position to retaliate without risking their seaborne communications across the Passage. And while losing command of the sea might be disaster for us, it would certainly be a disaster for them. They can lose a war in an afternoon, in a fleet action. With the Union blockaded, they’d be forced to pull in their horns. They can’t afford to isolate the expeditionary force they’ve committed to the Union. It’s our hostage.”
McRuther pointed to the map on the easel at the end of the table. “They can supply through the Sierra—and the Sierra is neutral.”
Senator Beemody looked to the three men sitting across the table, in naval blue, army brown, and the diplomatic service’s formal black tailcoat.
“Sirs, there’s only a single track line from north to south through the Sierra,” Jeffrey said. “Besides that, it’s narrow gage, so you’d have to break bulk at both ends, the old Imperial net and the Union’s.”
“General?” Beemody prompted.
“Assuming that the Union was fully under Libert’s control, and that the Chosen went along with a naval blockade?” Beemody nodded. “Supplying their forces would be just possible. Daily demand would go down and they could supply more from Union resources. It would certainly take some time for a squeeze to be effective, in terms of logistics.”
“We can interdict the Gut,” Admiral Farr said. “That I can assure you gentlemen.”
“But the role of the Sierra will be crucial,” Beemody said. “Senators, I move that the Foreign Ministry be directed to dispatch a special envoy with sealed plenipotentiary powers to secure the assistance of the Sierra Democratica y Populara in a preemptive blockade of the Union to enforce the neutralization and removal of all foreign troops. It’s risky,” he said to their grave looks, “but I sincerely believe it’s our only chance. Otherwise in six months’ time we’ll be confronted with a choice between a war that might destroy us and accepting a Land protectorate on our border, which is intolerable. A show of hands, please, Senators.”
This time the vote was less than unanimous. McRuther kept his hand obstinately down, switching his pouched and hooded blue eyes between Beemody and the Farrs.
“Fifteen ayes. Five nays. The ayes have it. The recommendation will be made. I remind the honorable senators that this meeting of the Foreign Affairs Committee is strictly confidential.”
“Agreed,” McRuther said sourly. “Its no time for a war of leaks.”
“Then if that’s all, Senators?”
The big room seemed larger and more shadowy when only Beemody, Farr, and his sons were left. The faces of past premiers looked down somberly from oil paintings on the walls; the old-fashioned small-paned windows were streaked with rain. Branches from the oaks around the building tapped against the glass like skeletal fingers. John Hosten had a sudden image of men—men not yet dead, the dead of the greater war to come—rising from their graves and traveling back to this moment, tap-tap-tapping at the windows, pleading for their lives. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions.
observe:
Center showed him a vision he’d seen times beyond number, since that year on the docks of Oathtaking. Visager from space, the globes of fire expanding over cities, rising in shells of cracked white until they flattened against the upper edge of the atmosphere and the whole globe turned dirty white with the clouds. . . .
His stepfather cleared his throat. “You don’t really think the Chosen will swallow a blockade of the Union?” he said to the head of the Foreign Affairs Committee.
Beemody shook his head. “About as likely as a hyena giving up a bone,” he said frankly. “But it’s as good a casus belli as any, the Senate will swallow it because they’re desperate and desperate men believe what they want to, and the public will go along, too. Even McRuther will go along; he knows we can’t dodge this much longer. But we do need more time, and we do need the Sierrans to come in on our side. They should; if we fall, they’re next.”
“But it’s easier to see that when you don’t have someone ahead of you in the lineup to the abattoir,” Jeffrey said with brutal frankness. “Hope springs eternal—and the Sierrans aren’t just decentralized, they’ve got the political nervous system of an amoeba. Getting them to agree where the sun comes up is an accomplishment.”
“Perhaps,” John said slowly, “we could get the Chosen to do our arguing for us.”
His foster-father frowned in puzzlement. Jeffrey shot him a glance, then tilted his head slightly towards the older men.
There comes a time when you have to use an asset, John said. If you won’t risk it, what bloody use is it?
Center? Jeffrey asked.
probability of success is in the fifty percent range, the machine voice said. chaotic factors render closer analysis futile at this point. success would increase the probability of a favorable outcome to the struggle as a w
hole by 10%, ±3.
John nodded mentally. “Here’s what I propose,” he said. “First, sir”—he nodded to Admiral Farr—”Senator, you should be aware that we have a very highly placed double agent who the Chosen—Land Military Intelligence, to be precise—think is their mole and who they rely on implicitly for analysis of the Republic’s intentions. I can’t be more specific, of course. And this is entirely confidential.”
The Admiral and Senator Beemody nodded in unison. There was no telling where the real moles were, of course.
“Here’s what I think we should do—”
Gerta Hosten was walking stiffly when she entered the room. John stood.
“Are you all right?” he asked, surprised to find the concern genuine, even after all these years.
“Flying accident,” she said, looking around.
The little house was a gem, in its own way; patterned silk wallpaper, Errife rugs, inlaid furniture, all discreetly tucked away in a leafy suburb north of the embassy section of Santander City. Just what a millionaire industrialist would use for assignations he wanted to keep thoroughly secret from his wife, which was the cover John was using. Good tradecraft, she thought grudgingly; John could read that on her face, even without Center’s supremely educated guesses.
“Not serious, I hope.” John sat and poured the coffee and brandy.
“Just a wrenched back for me. Thankfully, the plane totaled itself in front of half the Chosen Council. That damned bomber is a flying—just barely flying—abortion. If it’d had a full fuel load, much less bombs, I’d be in bits just large enough to plug a rat’s ass.”
“The Air Council’s finally given up on using airships as strategic bombers?”
“I should hope so, after we lost a dozen trying to hit Unionvil in the last offensive,” she said. “But those eight-engine monsters Porschmidt came up with, they’re no better. Only marginally faster, the bomb load is a joke, they’re unbelievably expensive to build and maintain, and landing them’s more dangerous than combat. The bugger’s got the Council’s ear, though, him and his backers. Now he’s throwing good money after bad, trying to improve the fuckers.” She sighed. “To business.”
“Here,” John said, sliding the folder across the ivory-and-tortoise-shell of the table.
It had three separate sets of “Top Secret” and “Eyes Only” stamps on it, Army General Staff, Naval Staff, and Premier’s Office, the latter a miniature of the Great Seal that only he and his chief aide could use. Gerta whistled silently as she picked it up. Her face went totally unreadable as she finally looked up at him. “This is serious?”
“Totally. Note the Premier’s sign-off.”
She flipped to the end. To be implemented, as soon as possible. “I’ll be damned,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought the Santies could get their shit together like this.”
“Jeff advised it, strongly,” John said. “He’s quite the fair-haired boy right now, and not just with the general public.”
“He deserves it,” Gerta said, refilling her cup. “Heinrich was extremely impressed with the way he got most of the Brigades out of Unionvil before we pinched off the pocket there. Excuse me, before General Libert pinched off the pocket with the assistance of volunteer contractors from the Land operating without the approval of the Chosen Council.”
She grinned like a wolf. “Heinrich picked up some very pretty things there when we sacked the city.”
John matched her expression, although in his case it wasn’t a smile. “What’ll you recommend?”
“Me? I’m just MilInt’s messenger girl,” Gerta said.
“You’re also the daughter of the Chief of the General Staff,” John pointed out. “And you’ve been carrying the hatchet for them for fifteen years now.”
“That’s between me and the vater, Johnnie,” Gerta said, taking out a camera the size of a palm from the street purse resting beside her chair. She opened it, checked the ambient light, and began photographing each page of the folder with swift, methodical care. “Besides, all doing a good job gets you is more jobs—you know how it works.
“I’ll tell you, though,” she said as she worked, “that I told him we shouldn’t get involved in the Union, and that if we had to make another grab so soon it should be the Sierra instead.”
“Tougher nut,” John observed.
“True, but not one we had to swim to get to,” she replied. “Frankly I think the navy flatters its chances when the balloon goes up. The Union thing could leave our tits in the wringer if things go wrong. This”—she nodded to the papers between snaps—”is exactly what the Santies should do, after all. But the Union was just too tempting, the political situation. I wish there were more women on the Chosen Council.”
John looked up at the irrelevancy. The Chosen had equality of the sexes, but males did predominate slightly at the higher ranks.
“Men never can resist the chance to stick it in an inviting orifice,” Gerta said, and finished her pictures. “Heinrich’s as smart as a whip, for example, but he spends an unbelievable amount of time and effort improving the Union’s genetic material. It’s the same with politics. No patience.”
“Do I detect a certain note of complaint?”
They both laughed. “Plenty left over,” Gerta said. She rose and saluted. “Thanks, Johnnie . . . if it’s genuine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“It’s like something out of th’ Bible,” Harry Smith blurted, looking down from where the car rested on a high track beside a customs station.
Belton Pass was the main overland route between the Union and the Republic of the Santander. The saddle was only seven thousand feet high, and hilly rather than mountainous; on either side the Border Range reared up to twenty thousand feet or better, capped by glaciers and eternal snow above the treeline. There were enigmatic Federation ruins on the slopes, built of substances no scientist could even identify, and tunnels where strange machines crouched like trolls in an ancient tale—some as pristine as the day they were last used, some crumbling like salt when exposed to air or sunlight. In the centuries after the Fall mule trains had used the pass, and border barons had built stone keeps whose tumbled stone had supplied material for shepherds huts in later years. Wars between the two countries had left their legacy of forts, the more recent sunken deep in the rock and covered in ferroconcrete and steel. There was a motorable road now, too, and a double-tracked railway built with immense labor and expense all the way from Alai in the western foothills.
Trains had been coming out of the Union for weeks now. The first had carried the last gold reserves of the Loyalist government, and the most precious records. Later ones had carried everything that could be salvaged from the factories of the Union’s western provinces, some with the labor forces sitting on the machine tools. More and more carried people, shuttling back and forth with crowds riding packed so tightly that smothered bodies were unloaded at every stop, and the roofs of the freight cars black with refugees. Even more poured by cart and horse and ox-wagon, scores of thousands more on foot carrying their few possessions on their backs or in handcarts and wheelbarrows. They packed the lowlands in a moving mass of black and dun-brown, dust hanging over them like an eternal cloud. Only behind the Santander border posts with their tall flagpoles did they begin to fray out, as soldiers and volunteers directed them.
Pia Hosten leaned against her husband’s long limousine, dark circles of fatigue under her eyes. She pulled off the kerchief that covered her hair and shuddered.
“It will be like a plague out of the Bible if we do not get more of the delousing stations set up. Typhus and cholera, those people are all half-starved and filthy and they have had no chance to wash in weeks.”
“We’ll do it,” John said. “The government’s sending in more troops to set up the camps and keep order, and we’re shipping in food and medical supplies as fast as the roads and rail net will bear.” He looked at his wife, and brushed back a strand of hair that fell down her forehead. “There would b
e thousands dead, if it weren’t for your Auxiliaries,” he said. “Nobody else was ready.”
She turned and buried her face in his shoulder. “I feel as if I am trying to bail the ocean with a spoon,” she said.
“You’re exhausted. You’ve done an enormous job of work, and I’m proud of you.”
“Dad!”
Maurice Farr came bounding up the slope, handsome young olive face alight, trim and slender in the sky-blue uniform of the Air Cadets.
“Dad—I mean, sir—Uncle Jeff, I mean General Farr, is coming. With General Gerard!” He stopped. “Mom, are you all right?”
She straightened. “Of course.” Then she looked down at her plain dress, stained with sweat and her work. “My God, I can’t—”
“It’s not a diplomatic reception, darling,” John said soothingly. “And I don’t think Jeff or Pierre will care much about appearances. Not after what you’ve been doing.”
The car that drew a trail of dust up the gravel road was much less elegant than John’s, although it was the same big six-wheeled model. It had patched bullet holes in several places, a few fresh ones, and three whip antennae waving overhead. Rock crunched under the wheels as it drew to a stop and stood, the engine pinging and wheezing as metal cooled and contracted. The men who climbed down were ragged and smelled strongly of stale sweat, and there was dust caked in the stubble on their faces.
Pierre Gerard drew himself up, saluted, and held out his pistol butt-first. “As representative of the Union del Est—” he began.
John took the weapon and reversed it, handing it back to the Union general. And head of state, don’t forget that, he reminded himself.
“General Gerard, as representative of the Republic of the Santander, it is my privilege to welcome you, your government, your armed forces and your people to our territory. I am instructed to assure you that you will all be welcome until the day when you can return to restore your country’s independence, and in the interim the government and people of the Republic will extend every aid, and every courtesy, within their power.”
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